


Good To Be Alive

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Original Percival Graves, Historically Accurate Sexual Slang, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, minor daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Miraculous survival leads to miraculous sex. Who would have thought?





	Good To Be Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/gifts).



> In which I write my second-ever PWP, and try a new kink on for size. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite fit. I think that major daddy kink will remain a squick; I think what I've got in here is about all I can write. Apologies for the minor angst, I can't leave these two alone for a second or angst comes sneaking in round the back! BUT IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING AND THAT'S WHAT COUNTS.

They’re barely in the door before they crash into each other at full force. Credence isn’t ready for it: Mr. Graves has hold of his shoulders and is pushing him up against the wall, kissing him like he’s forgotten that they need air to breathe. Credence’s knees practically give out. He gives back as good as he gets, teeth getting in the way, messy and unpracticed.

“Before you can chastise me,” Mr. Graves growls, one hand gently cupping Credence’s jaw, “I thought you were dead. I thought I was dead. It is very, _very_ good to be alive, and now that we are behind closed doors—”

“I wasn’t planning to object,” Credence gasps. He’s lightheaded, unsure of his footing, only trusting that Mr. Graves won’t let him fall.

“Good,” Mr. Graves says. He looks up at Credence—terrifying in its own way, it is _so easy_ for Credence to forget that he’s taller—and smiles. “You are _amazing_.”

Credence shakes his head but he doesn’t get an objection out before Mr. Graves kisses him again. Open-mouthed, sloppy, leaving Credence’s lips tingling. It could go on forever as far as Credence is concerned, a reminder that he’s alive and Mr. Graves is real and here.

Without warning Mr. Graves slots his leg between Credence’s, pressing hard against him. Credence bites off any sound but Mr. Graves does not and it is the most beautiful thing Credence has ever heard. “ _What_ are you doing?” Credence manages to ask.

“What I’ve wanted to do since I _saw_ you,” Mr. Graves says. As if to prove a point he grinds into Credence and this time Credence can’t hold back a moan, involuntarily shifting to increase the pressure.

For half a second they’re perfectly still like that. Credence’s back against the wall, fingers twisted into Mr. Graves’ coat; Mr. Graves pinning him in place,

Credence thinks he might have just died and gone to Heaven.

And then Mr. Graves says, in a slightly strangled voice, “How do you feel about taking this into the bedroom?”

“Oh, God, yes, yes—” Credence pulls at Mr. Graves’ coat, trying to get it off as fast as he can; Mr. Graves wrenches the buttons on Credence’s jacket free. Credence doesn’t know where they’re going, and he probably couldn’t remember how to get out of the house if he tried. They stumble up the stairs and down the hall, too busy undressing each other to pay attention.

The portraits on the walls murmur and laugh. Credence feels himself blush, but Mr. Graves just makes a severely irritated noise and waves his hand. “Silencio! Why do I _keep_ those things?”

“Because they’re your ancestors?” Credence hazards.

Mr. Graves casts the visibly-irked portraits a flat glare. “Unfortunately.”

He shoves the door open and they fall through together, Credence very nearly tripping over his own heels. There’s a moment that should have been awkward as they let go of each other long enough to discard pants and underclothes, but it isn’t. Credence is vaguely relieved that Mr. Graves isn’t watching as he strips off his union suit: he feels ungainly and awkward in it enough as it is.

And he doesn’t have time to dither about things like _scars_ when Mr. Graves takes hold of his wrists and kisses him again. “Bed,” he says, “ _now_.”

Credence takes three steps backward and sits down on the edge, looking up at Mr. Graves. “Yes, daddy,” he says sarcastically, made brave by the moment. He wouldn’t usually take such a tone around this man, but he’s reasonably certain that Mr. Graves isn’t going to throw him out for impertinence now.

Mr. Graves pauses and something flickers in his eyes. “What?”

“I said,” Credence says slowly, realization dawning that Mr. Graves had not taken that as flippancy, “yes, _daddy_.” He hooks one of his ankles around Mr. Graves’, looking up.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Mr. Graves says in a low voice that makes Credence’s stomach flutter with anticipation. He pushes Credence back and Credence goes willingly, falling onto his back. Mr. Graves is kneeling over him and Credence realizes he fits perfectly between Mr. Graves’ legs.

“I don’t know what happens next,” Credence admits, studying the weathered lines of the older man’s face. They’ve never done this, though they’d kissed in an alley once and Mr. Graves had held him, and once his wandering hands had even drifted down to hold Credence’s hips—which Credence had remembered for days afterward with a shivery longing. “I…”

Mr. Graves rests a finger on Credence’s lips. “I know what happens next,” he says. “Before…I didn’t want to…I don’t know, defile you? Is that the right word? But I’m fairly sure we’re beyond that. So this is what happens next. You are going to fuck me until I can’t think anymore.”

Credence feels like his mind has just gone completely blank. “Me?…you?”

“Did I stutter?” Mr. Graves asks.

“No,” Credence squeaks. His voice cracks and breaks. “Are you sure?”

Mr. Graves laughs. “Of course. Don’t panic, sweetheart.”

“It’s shock, not panic,” Credence says, rolling his eyes a little. He’s not a china doll or anything like that. “I mean…I think you’d know if I really panicked.” He traces the patterns of curse scars jaggedly cutting over Mr. Graves’ shoulders and down his arms. They’re silvery, unfading, and Credence would think them beautiful if he didn’t know what they were from.

“Not much to look at anymore, am I?” Mr. Graves says.

“You’re all I want to look at,” Credence says softly. He takes a pause to breathe, to remember that he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. “If you…if you can look at me and think I’m all right, then I get to do the same with you.”

Mr. Graves traces the outline of a nasty scar that cuts over Credence’s shoulder. “Fair,” he says, and leans down to kiss Credence again.

Credence misses the weight when Mr. Graves lets go of him. Still, Credence takes the chance to sit up and breathe. He’s dizzy, and is rather grateful for the mild reprieve as he watches Mr. Graves stretch out across the bed to reach his wand, which he must have dropped on the bed at some point. It’s the first time Credence has really seen Mr. Graves with his clothes off; the play of muscles on his back and shoulders is mesmerizing.

Mr. Graves sits up again and turns to face Credence again. “Ready?”

“Not really,” Credence says honestly. “But…I’m more worried about you. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“I might be a little sore. You’re rather…well-endowed,” Mr. Graves says, glancing down.

It might be possible for Credence to turn redder; he isn’t sure. And now he knows that he blushes all the way down his chest, which is wonderful. “Is that bad?”

“They call it _well_ -endowed for a reason,” Mr. Graves says, and before Credence can say a word his fingers drift down to stroke Credence’s whole length. Credence gasps and hides his face in the curve of Mr. Graves’ shoulder, feeling desperately sensitive.

Credence loses all track of time for a moment, as he simply lets Mr. Graves _touch_ him. He’s imagined this, of course he has, but his own hands could never compare to this. He can’t convince himself to make a sound, and hopes only that the marks his nails leave in Mr. Graves’ shoulders and the small gasps that stutter out of him are enough.

All too soon, Mr. Graves stops, moving back. Credence follows. For a moment, Mr. Graves’ hand lingers on the back of Credence’s neck and Credence shivers. He tilts his head back a little, trying to stop Mr. Graves from letting go, and apparently that’s enough of an invitation for Mr. Graves to press a kiss to Credence’s throat.

“That takes care of you,” Mr. Graves says, the words whispering over sensitive skin. Credence feels like all that’s holding him together is the hand cradling his neck and the hand on his hip, as if he’ll fly apart into a million shadows if Mr. Graves lets go.

“Wh-what about you?” Credence manages.

Mr. Graves lets go then, and somehow Credence doesn’t explode. “If you don’t mind,” Mr. Graves says, gazing at Credence with hungry, dark eyes, “I’m going to skip a lot of the…preparation.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.” Mr. Graves shakes his head, absently brushing loose strands of hair from his face. Credence thinks it might have been his hands that disarranged Mr. Graves like that, pulled him apart and made him look so much more _human_. “I’m just going to move things on a little quicker.”

Credence, dry-mouthed, not sure where to put his hands, nods. He watches, silent, sure his eyes are as wide as saucers, as Mr. Graves murmurs a quick series of spells that Credence doesn’t know, one that makes him shudder and breathe faster, though he keeps his head enough to finish the spells.

And then he sets aside the wand—though Credence notices that it’s still within easy arm’s reach—and stretches out at full length on his stomach on the bed. “I think you’re all right,” he says.

Slowly, uncertain, Credence crawls into what he instinctively feels is the correct place behind Mr. Graves, a hand on the older man’s back. But he can’t quite let go— “Are you sure about this, Mr. Graves?”

“Credence, I swear to your God, if you ask me one more time I will _hex_ you,” the man says, looking over his shoulder. He’s flushed and visibly having difficulty finding words. Credence’s heart does something erratic when he thinks that _he_ was the cause of this. “And—for Hester Prynne’s sake, you’re about to fuck me, I’m fairly sure that you can call me Percival.”

“Percival,” Credence murmurs, trying it out. It’s a good name. He aligns himself with—with Percival, now—and tentatively, slowly as he can, he presses in. Percival is hot and slick and despite the magical preparation tight, so much that Credence nearly loses it right then and there.

Under Credence’s hand he can feel Percival’s back arch as he twists, looking for a better angle that Credence doesn’t quite know how to give. He tries not to hurt Percival—he’s beginning to get an inkling that _well-endowed_ probably goes along with _painful_ , he’s not sure how he can possibly fit—and still Percival drops his head to rest in the crook of his elbow with a stifled moan.

Credence freezes. “Is this—is this all right?”

“ _Yes_.”

Credence is afraid to move, even though he desperately wants to. “Are you—”

“You have your _cock_ in me, Credence, I’m _sure_ ,” Percival says, and somehow he manages to sound so exasperated that Credence almost bursts into wholly inappropriate laughter. “Just _fuck me_.”

He doesn’t wait for any more permission. Credence snaps his hips forward and gasps as Percival bucks under his hand, rhythm off just enough to send shocks all the way through Credence’s body. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but it doesn’t seem to matter at all. Percival _writhes_ with every move Credence makes. Words spill out of Percival’s mouth, words Credence only understands because they’re meant for _him_ , a private language where signifier is divorced from signified, where it doesn’t matter what Percival says because every word is pure _adoration_.

Credence feels it when Percival comes as he buries a shout in the mattress, every muscle in his body going tight, clenching around Credence and it’s too much. Credence follows Percival mere seconds later, body going slack, crumpling over Percival’s back, a shaking mess. For a moment, neither of them move. Credence isn’t sure he can—he can’t quite remember what bones are supposed to do—and he wouldn’t, if he could, when he feels so safe and secure right here, whole body pressed against Percival.  

Finally, Credence moves, rolling off and onto his back. Percival shivers as Credence withdraws, but the motion seems to call him to his senses. He reaches out and picks up his wand, flicking it twice with a murmured, “ _Evanesco_.”

“God,” Credence says, staring at Percival, “that was…”

Percival pushes the wand under the pillow and reaches out, arm around Credence’s body. With a small sigh of relief, Credence folds into Percival’s embrace. He slides down slightly so that he can tuck his head under Percival’s chin. Percival’s other arm comes around him and Credence closes his eyes, absolutely blissful. “Good,” Percival says.

“I’m pretty sure that was better than good,” Credence mutters mutinously.

“Oh, it was,” Percival says. His fingers comb through Credence’s sweat-soaked hair. “I just want to have somewhere to go from here, and there isn’t much higher than ‘incredible’.”

Credence thinks he might be blushing again. “…oh.”

“It’s a very good thing I have the next month off for recovery,” Percival muses.

All sorts of _impressively_ filthy ideas appear in Credence’s head. “A really good thing.”

Percival laughs. “You’re going to be insatiable, aren’t you?”

“I have all the time in the world to be like that now,” Credence says, kissing Percival’s collarbone.

He doesn’t get a reply except for Percival’s arms tightening around him and a kiss pressed to the top of his head. Credence is perfectly happy to be right here, safe, with Percival, for as long as he possibly can. For the first time in his life, Credence dares to think of a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a problem with the term "porn without plot" because technically the OED reminds us that a plot is "the main events of a play, novel, film, or similar work, devised and presented by the writer as an interrelated sequence." By this definition, it's not "porn without plot", it's "THE PORN IS THE PLOT". 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> In old blues songs (think 1909), “daddy” is slang for “pimp”. It's always had a sexual connotation and by 1926, it was in full flourishing swing this way. In homosexual relationships, the term connoted the partner who’s in the dominant role. Now, before you get salty…remember that dominance isn’t dictated by the position you take! ^.^


End file.
